The Tale of Farior and Trialwen
by ElfWarrior
Summary: After the Last Alliance, a wounded elf meets a healer-bard in Rivendell. Anything else is telling too much. Elrond makes a cameo in chpt. 4. My few reviewers so far have liked it a lot. PLEASE REVIEW! I WON'T POST MORE UNLESS I KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!
1. Trialwen

_Ah, mellon, what have you been waiting for?_

_So much, my friend, so much._

_Why?_

_Because it had to be. If only you knew it all..._

_I can, if you tell me._

_You are an elf, and it will drive even you to tears, for you knew Trialwen._

_Trialwen? What does my sister have to do with this?_

_More than you can ever know._

_Why? Stop dropping hints and tell me the story. What happened after you ran off with her?_

_Shall I tell you? Listen, then, and hear the Tale of Farior and Trialwen..._

_  
_

A song floated through the trees, as lazily as the morning breeze that toyed with Farior's pale blond hair. It was a cheerful, joyous song, not at all befitting the young elf's mood.

The haven that Lord Elrond had founded was beautiful, now that he was conscious and no longer driven mad by pain and was able to see and appreciate it. But Farior was truly oblivious to its majesty, would have given up this home for his old one, and all that he had lost.

_Curse the Dark Lord's spirit, and Isildur's with him!_

Too caught up in his memories to realize what he was doing, Farior moved to put his head in his hands, and Sauron's work looked him in the face.

The elf winced painfully and looked away from his war tokens. Farior had been caught directly in the path of the Enemy as he swept his way through the ranks of Gil-Galad and Elendil. He had managed to dodge the worst of the Dark Lord's strikes, but had been clipped with the full force of his magic. Elrond had been able to save his mind, though it had taken many long and hard months of painful work, but no healing could save his arm. From the elbow down on his left side, there was nothing. The lower half of the limb had been completely incinerated. And the left side of his face was twisted and burned grotesquely, looking more like the features of an orc than those of an elf. The thought made him wince again. And those weren't all his injuries. His entire left side was one solid burn scar, and his left leg had been deformed, his foot twisted sharply inwards.

He would never run again. He would never draw a bow again. He would never ride again. He would never even walk straight again.

And there were other wounds, too, wounds that ran far deeper that the physical. Such long and terrible pain as he had lived with for the last several months was not quickly thrown aside. It had driven him mad at first, and only Elrond's patient, careful work had retrieved his sanity. And Shanor...

Well, Shanor was dead, wasn't he? He'd been killed in the battle. Farior had dragged his best friend, his brother in all but blood, the one he was closer to and loved more than any other in the world, away from the fighting. The other elf had died in his arms. Farior, driven mad—though not as mad as he would soon be—by grief, had charged back into the fray, slaying many before Sauron brought him down.

And now he was here, in Rivendell, alive and healed in body if not in soul.

_Damn you, Sauron, damn you..._

The song ended, but the musician began another, this one slow and sad—far more appropriate for Farior. The singer had a beautiful voice, befitting Rivendell. Shanor, had he been there, would have made a comment about how whoever she was probably had been left behind in the looks department because she'd been given such a lovely voice, then would have hurried off to meet her and fallen in love with her—for about a week. Shanor was like that. He'd never found anyone he wanted to stay with forever, but Farior suspected that things had been brewing between him and Varuviel, another elf who had fought in the war.

Another elf who was dead.

Farior was too lost in his grief to notice that the song had grown louder—the singer was coming closer. He leaned his forehead on his remaining hand and took a slow, shuddering breath, striving to keep his tears inside.

The song stopped suddenly. Farior looked up, sidelong, to see the singer standing before him, looking almost like a startled deer.

Had Shanor made that comment about her being left behind in looks, he would have been very wrong. She had long, slightly wavy, midnight black hair that flowed unbound down her back almost to her knees. Her eyes were an unearthly blue. She wore a simple green dress, and a finely crafted elven dagger was strapped to her waist. She stood to his right, and Farior had not yet turned his head, so she hadn't seen any of the horrible deformities he now bore.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. Her speaking voice was just as nice as her singing one. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Are you new to Rivendell? I haven't seen you before. My name is Trialwen. What's yours?"

Farior kept his head straight and his arm—or what remained of it—down. He didn't want her pity. "Farior."

"Did you arrive here recently?" Trialwen sat beside him on the bench.

He turned subtly. "No. I've been here for months—over a year—recovering from war injuries."

She nodded. "Ah. That explains it. I'm not a very good physical healer, so I usually stay out of their business. I'm more of a mind-and-soul healer—comes along with my music, Lord Elrond thinks." Farior wished she wouldn't be so cheerful, though he knew she was just being friendly. "But the war was ages ago. You must have been greatly injured indeed." Farior nodded shortly. Even though her happiness was becoming annoying, he found himself somehow soothed by her presence. Probably the healing talents she'd mentioned. "Was Elrond healing you?" He nodded again. Trialwen raised her eyebrows. "Will you look at me when I'm speaking to you, please?" Her tone became a bit sharp.

Farior gave a cruel parody of a laugh. "Trust me, you don't want me to."

She crossed her arms. "Don't I?"

"No, you don't."

"And why not?"

Farior sighed. "This is why." He turned to face her, twisting so that she not only saw his horribly marred face but his half an arm as well.

Trialwen was surprised, and she let it show. But, to Farior's own surprise, he didn't see any of the disgust or pity he'd expected in her eyes. Only surprise, and another emotion he couldn't name. She nodded. "And that's why Elrond himself was working with you."

"Yes, it is," Farior snarled. "And I'll thank you to leave me alone now." He stood and began to hobble away, flushing in shame at his pace.

"Why?" Trialwen asked softly.

The question stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly. "What?"

"Why? Why do you want me to leave you alone?"

That was a good question—and one he didn't know the answer to.

Farior looked at Trialwen, then towards the empty wood and solitude. _Perhaps, he thought, __it is time for my soul to heal, as well as my body. For the first time in at least a year, he really, truly smiled. "I don't," he told Trialwen, and dragged himself back to the bench to sit beside her._

The elf-maid smiled back. "I thought not. If you don't mind my asking, what happened?"

Farior hesitated. His newfound resolution to trust Trialwen was put to an immediate test. He hadn't told any one what happened—not even Elrond knew everything, about Shanor and all. He took a deep breath and began his story.


	2. Lutariel and Erodir

Disclaimer (which I forgot on chapter 1—oops!!): Middle-Earth, Elrond, etc. belong to His Greatness Tolkien, not me, but Farior, Trialwen, Lutariel, Erodir, and everyone else who doesn't appear in any of his stuff are mine.  
  
The sun had past its high point in the sky by the time he was done. He'd cried through most of it, and Trialwen had just let him. When he finally finished, she said nothing for a long moment, then murmured, "I'm sorry. I know that sounds silly, but I am. There's nothing either of us can do to change the past, but, Farior—can't you face the future with the same bravery you faced the Dark Lord with? And—" her voice faltered, "—I'll help, if I can. If you want me to."  
  
Farior was amazed. "But—why? Why would you want to help me?"  
  
She laughed. "Because you need me to! Come, my friend, think about it. You're still an elf, and I'd help anyone in the state you're in, even a dwarf."  
  
"I feel so flattered to be grouped among dwarves," he replied dryly.  
  
Trialwen's smile widened. "You're already acting much nicer. You just made a joke."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Yes, you did." She stood and brushed her hands off. "Has anyone shown you around Imladris yet?" Farior shook his head. "Then I'll give you a guided tour. Come on."  
  
Rivendell was far fairer than Farior had ever believed it could be, incomplete though it was. Trialwen had lived there since its beginning, and knew all the most beautiful places and best views of the surrounding areas, still as wild as they had been before the elves colonized the area. She showed him all of it, walking at a slow pace so that Farior could keep up, but not so slow that he became offended.  
  
Finally, they came to the armspractice chambers. Trialwen viewed the warriors inside with a sigh before turning away. "What's wrong?" Farior asked.  
  
"I can't fight," she replied bluntly. "Not that I'd want to go off and kill people, but it would be nice to be good in self defense."  
  
"But—that dagger—"  
  
"Show and bluff, mostly. Plus, I like the way it looks." She smiled mischievously. "I usually use it for cutting herbs or mundane things like that. Now, my sister on the other hand—"  
  
"Who's your sister?"  
  
"Lutariel. She's that one right there."  
  
Trialwen pointed to a short, dark-haired elf fencing with a much taller opponent. The small woman used her height to her advantage, darting in underneath her enemy's guard. She soon had him down with her blade at his throat.  
  
From what Farior could see, Lutariel was even more beautiful than her sister was, and surprisingly delicate. She looked as if she'd be more at home sewing or waiting patiently to be rescued.  
  
"Don't be deceived by her helpless-little-elf-woman act," Trialwen whispered. "She beat Gil-galad. She could probably break any of those other fighters out on the floor in half without thinking about it."  
  
"Her?"  
  
"Her. She tried to teach me to fight like she can—but I wasn't good enough. My largest failing."  
  
Farior thought for a moment. "I might be able to take her. At least, I would've been able to before..." He sighed. "I can't fight at all now."  
  
"Can't you use a sword still?"  
  
"With this foot?" He slammed a fist into his left leg. "Forget it."  
  
"What about mounted?"  
  
He raised his eyebrows. "Riding? With this?"  
  
Her eyes sparkled. "Come with me."  
  
She took his hand and led him to the stables. "My brother works here. I'm sure he'll be able to figure something out."  
  
"How many siblings do you have?" Farior asked incredulously. A fighter, a horseman, and a bardic healer, all in the same family!  
  
"Just Lutariel and Erodir. Lutariel is the oldest, and Erodir and I are twins. Mother always said that it was hard enough to control Lutariel, and why did Erodir and I have to come along and beat each other up while she wasn't looking." Trialwen paused and considered. "Actually, the beating-up part was rather one-sided. If I were betting on a fight between me and a sick, one-legged, unarmed orc, I'd put my money on the orc." Farior chuckled.  
  
As they came to the stables, she stopped him, put two fingers in her mouth, and whistled sharply. "Erodir!"  
  
The doors opened, and a tousle-haired elf led two horses out of the barn, one of which began to nibble on his shoulder. He turned and glared at the offending beast, who put on an innocent air and tossed her head. Erodir grinned and turned to his sister. "What do you want this time, sister mine?"  
  
"Courteous as always, Erodir," she replied sarcastically. "This is Farior, and I wanted to know if you could find a mount for him."  
  
Erodir looked Farior up and down, and vice versa. Upon closer examination, Erodir was tall, even for an elf, with the shortest, messiest hair Farior had ever seen on one of his kind. He looked a bit like a masculine version of his twin sister, but his eyes were black and his clothes were not as fine. In fact, they were old, plain, and dirty, by anyone's standards. He was clearly the kind of person who spent most of his time working with animals, and perceptive. "The wars, hm?" he asked, nodding at Farior's injuries. The other nodded. "Well, with that foot, I don't think we'd have any horses fit for that now. Have to train one special, but we could do that, if you're willing to work with your mount." He stared more intently at Farior. "Were you mounted in the battle? Which horse did you have?"  
  
"For the first half. My horse died under me. You probably won't remember him—Ralthosir."  
  
"Won't remember? I trained Ralthosir! Bottle-fed him when his dam died!"  
  
Trialwen laughed. "Erodir remembers every horse who's ever touched him, every one he's ever seen. He lives for horses. Lutariel says he's half- horse himself. I just say that he retains the smell of one."  
  
"And I just say they're jealous. Lutariel can only ride chargers, and Trialwen rides barely better than she fights."  
  
Trialwen stuck her tongue out at her brother and changed the subject. "When can you start training a mount?"  
  
Erodir smiled. "You're in luck. Kalra foaled two days ago, and Elrond would probably let you have the colt, if Trialwen sweet-talked him. You can meet the youngster now, if you like." Farior nodded eagerly. "And if I can get one of my assistants to take these two ladies off to pasture. KALIERA!"  
  
A young elf girl of about fourteen, covered in hay, ran out of the barn, pitchfork still in hand. "Yessir?" she asked.  
  
"Take these two off to pasture, will you?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
Kaliera took the lead ropes from Erodir and trotted off. "Now," the stablemaster continued, "come and meet the little lass." 


	3. Luinnar

See chapter 2 for disclaimer.  
  
Erodir led them to an open field. A mare lay on her side in the center of the field, a sleeping filly beside her. "Kalra's the first to foal this year," he explained. "Her daughter doesn't have a name yet—and I'll leave that up to you, since she's yours now, if you'll have her."  
  
"And if Elrond says yes," Farior added. "She's technically his." Even with this cautionary knowledge, his heart thrilled at the thought of being able to ride again.  
  
Trialwen smiled. "He will," she assured. "I know he will."  
  
Erodir vaulted the fence and jogged toward his charges. Farior and Trialwen followed at a more sedate pace, climbing carefully over the fence. Trialwen's long hair caught on the boards. "Damn it!" she cursed. Farior raised his eyebrows as she untangled herself. "The disadvantages of long hair," she said ruefully, sweeping her flowing tresses across her shoulder and beginning to braid them.  
  
"Hurry up!" Erodir called. He was kneeling beside the pair. The filly had awakened and was snuffling his hair.  
  
Farior hung back as Trialwen sat gracefully beside the baby horse, who appeared to be enjoying all the attention. The elf-woman beckoned to him. "Come on! She's going to be yours. You need to meet her, and think of a good name."  
  
"Whatever you do," Erodir advised as Farior knelt and tentatively held out his hand to the colt, "don't name her Gil-galad."  
  
"Why would I do that?" Farior asked incredulously.  
  
"Half the horses last year had that name, and half of them were mares. And don't name her Lùthien either, or Laurelin, or Elwing, or Morwen, or anything along those lines. Nothing historical. And don't name her Trialwen."  
  
Trialwen rolled her eyes and patted the mare, who was butting the elf with her nose.  
  
The filly sniffed Farior's hand, then shoved her nose into it. Encouraged by his success, Farior ran his fingers along her bony muzzle, caressing the darkish patch of fur between her eyes. She looked back seriously at him.  
  
"Don't name her after any family members—you'll regret it, believe me," Erodir continued. "Don't name her after old friends, because it'll haunt you. Don't name her after—"  
  
"Erodir, shut up!" Trialwen said calmly. "I think Farior can decide for himself. And I think he has the sense not to name his horse after me—or Gil- galad. Or Lùthien."  
  
Farior opened his mouth to say "Fleetfoot", but nothing came out. He felt suddenly disoriented, and a thought flashed through his mind—more of a vision, one of a midnight sky, strewn with brightly twinkling stars, and amidst the stars, a fire burned, fierce and bright, but the fire was blue—  
  
"Luinnar," he said. "Her name is Luinnar."  
  
"Blue flame?" Erodir scrunched up his face, trying to find something wrong with the name. "Well..."  
  
Farior shook himself, a confused expression on his once-handsome face. "I didn't choose it, she did."  
  
"What?" the twins asked in more or less perfect unison.  
  
"Luinnar—she chose the name. I just—I saw—" Farior turned back to Luinnar. The young horse winked at him—and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes as pure mischief. Farior smiled. There was something special about his horse, but he didn't know what, and he was sure that he didn't need to know yet. He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, "We'll fly high and far together, Luinnar, won't we?"  
  
She whickered in reply, but Farior knew she was agreeing. No matter what Lord Elrond said, Luinnar was his in a way that couldn't be given.  
  
Erodir and Trialwen exchanged an unreadable look. The horseman shrugged. "Whatever you say. We can start training her tomorrow, if Trialwen talks to Elrond this evening."  
  
"Which I will," the elf-woman added.  
  
Farior listened with half and ear, his attention still on Luinnar until Trialwen put a hand on his shoulder. "We should go now," she murmured.  
  
"Oh—right. Thank you, Erodir."  
  
"Any time. Come back tomorrow at nine."  
  
Trialwen sighed. "Yes, your lordship. Come on, Farior."  
  
OK, if you've gotten this far, I am begging you to PLEASE REVIEW THIS!!! I have very few reviews, and I want to keep writing on this story, but with so few reviews, I have very little motivation. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!! 


	4. Elrond

Disclaimer: On chapter 1.

I apologize for the length or lack thereof in this chapter, but I'm pretty stuck in it.

"Lord Elrond, sir?"

The elf-lord looked up from the tome he was reading. "Oh, hello, Trialwen. Please come in." He stood from his chair to greet her.

"Yes sir." Trialwen walked shyly into the library. She liked the older elf, but he somewhat intimidated her, when she needed a favor more than ever, such as now, and he knew it. She hated asking anyone for favors, Lord Elrond most of all.

He raised one eyebrow wryly. "You only get this nervous when you have to ask for something. What is it?"

She smiled and sat before him in one of the many comfortable chairs scattered around the room. "Well, it's not for me, it's for—a patient I stole from you."

His second eyebrow joined the first somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. "A patient you stole from me? Do tell. I'm sure your _other teacher will be delighted to hear this."_

Trialwen's smile became a grin. "I haven't told her yet." Trialwen's musical instructor, the bard Kiasha, wished fervently that her student wouldn't spend so much time healing until she was fully trained. "I'm hoping to have things a little more organized."

"I see. So, who is this stolen patient? I can't think of anyone—"

"His name is Farior." Elrond didn't say anything, so Trialwen continued. "I came across him this morning, and we talked, and he told me about everything that had happened to him, and I showed him around Rivendell. He's very nice," she added as an afterthought.

Elrond was silent for another moment. Then, "Are we thinking of the same Farior?"

"It's hardly a common name, and he's rather unforgettable. I've never seen an elf so scarred, physically or mentally."

"Then he is the same one. You actually broke through that shell of his? I can't believe it! I've been trying for months! How did you manage to do it?"

Trialwen was taken aback. "I just talked to him. Is there something wrong?"

Elrond shook his head. "No—but your talent never ceases to amaze me. I should've realized that you were exactly what he needed to recover from this giant mess he's in. Go on, I'm intrigued. What do you need?"

She took a deep breath. "I think he can ride again, if we train a horse specially for him. Erodir says it'll work, and Farior's willing to try, and I'm certainly willing to help, for what good it'll do. A filly was born two days ago, and I took him over to meet her. They seemed to get quite attached to each other very quickly. He didn't want to leave the pasture and she didn't want him to. He named her Luinnar. Will you give her to him? Please?"

Elrond smiled. "Is that all? Of course he can have—what was the name?—Luinnar. Do you think it'll help him?"

"It already has, Master Elrond. He's going to be fine, I'm sure of it. He just needs time, and this is perfect. Thank you so much, sir!" Trialwen leaped up happily and threw her arms around her teacher, giving him a rather disrespectful kiss on the cheek before dancing out.

Elrond smiled after her, shaking his head slightly. Trialwen was truly a joy to teach, his favorite student. She always got attached to her patients, but she seemed overly excited about this one. He remembered that Farior had been handsome before his face had been burned…but he still had half an unmarred face…

The elf-lord's smile broadened. He hoped this meant what he thought it did.

When Erodir came to the pasture the next morning, he found Farior already sitting in the center of the field with Luinnar. The filly was eating an apple out of his hand as Kalra watched peacefully.

As Erodir watched, Trialwen ran up behind him. She was dressed more practically today in tunic, shirt, and breeches. Her long hair was braided and wrapped around her head, but small wisps had already escaped and fluttered around her face. She still wore her dagger, and she carried a pouch of sugar lumps. She smiled at her brother. "Elrond said yes."

"Wonderful! But I'm not so sure it would've mattered." Erodir pointed out the horse and elf to Trialwen. "Look at them! Already inseparable. Shame we can't actually get him mounted yet."

Trialwen's smile broadened as she climbed over the three-foot fence, hopping to the other side. "In the meantime, we can raise Luinnar nicely. I don't think they need help bonding or anything—they did that well enough on their own. Come on!"

Erodir vaulted over. "Race you!"


End file.
